the loss of one's footing
by PreludeInZ
Summary: Gordon/Penelope, just a little bit of fluff.


The first time he does it, it's so sudden and unexpected that it's a few moments before they both realize that he's never actually done it before.

Penelope's never been the sort of person that one puts one's hands on. She radiates propriety, correctness. Her posture is exquisite, she walks with the perfect execution of heel-to-toe, without the slightest hint of a teeter or a wobble. She makes wearing the platform stilettos that make up six inches of her height look effortless.

At the moment, she's barefoot.

Her couture is always exactly tailored and perfectly suited to the occasion. As a matter of course, she dresses in some of the most elegant and expensive labels in the world of high fashion. Dior, Givenchy, Prada. Lady Penelope is given gifts of dresses and gowns, shoes and bags, just so she can be see wearing them. She's unfailingly gracious and always impeccable.

In late January, on a remote island in the South Pacific, Lady Penelope wears a tasteful black bikini and a soft white cotton kaftan, and she's been furnished with a glass of sangria, white wine and strawberries and peaches and the spicy bite of ginger beer. The night is warm and starlight shimmers on the surface of the pool, and over the sounds of soft jazz and pleasant conversation with some of her dearest friends, she's got something to laugh about.

But _even_ barefoot, even in a bikini and a kaftan and with a glass of wine in her hand—even loose and relaxed and with her hair down and (almost) all defenses lowered, there's just something so hallowed and careful about the way the Lady Penelope carries herself; to imagine her being _carried_ is the sort of thing that stretches the imagination.

Gordon's gone and done it though, just scooped her right off her feet. The moment he does, she lets out a precious little yelp, but keeps hold of her drink; half of it gone. She's not even entirely certain _why_ he's done it; he'd had his hand lightly, casually on her hip a moment ago, while they chatted to Virgil and Kayo. The former had been sat at the pool's edge, lazily kicking his feet in the water, and the latter had been cross-legged on one of the lounge chairs, bright-eyed and a little tipsy, talking animatedly with her hands and a little bit of her native accent bleeding through. Possibly she'd employed the word "damsel". Possibly this had gotten a laugh from Gordon. Penelope's not sure. She hadn't entirely been paying attention. One moment she'd been standing flat on her feet, and the next—

There's no readily available protocol for this, though one of Penelope's arms loops instinctively around his neck. His arms are secure beneath her knees, wrapped around her back. For just a moment, she thinks he might have startled himself just as much as he's startled her.

What surprises her at first is just how _strong_ Gordon is. Obviously, she knows that. She's had the pleasure, this week alone, of watching Gordon swim laps of the pool every morning. She's developed a particular appreciation for Gordon's shoulders, his compact, triangular frame. And besides that, his job just calls for it. For that easy muscularity, lean and lithe and solid. Gordon's strong. _Obviously_.

 _Still_ , he picks her up like she weighs nothing at all, and the motion is natural, effortless. It's accounting to her own natural poise that she doesn't spill her drink all over the both of them, but obviously he has every reason to be practiced at picking people up. He's always carrying _somebody_ out of _some_ disaster or another. It's the fact that she's startled that has her yelp, and not the notion that he might drop her.

And there are those few moments. A stretch of seconds when they both realize that this is new and sudden and unexpected, something a little bit different between them; a boundary he's crossed without warning her, the sort of surprise that she's not used to being delighted by. Maybe it's the wine or the music or the starlight, maybe it's the way the skin of his bare chest is warm against hers, or maybe it's the way her breath catches and her heart obligingly picks up its rhythm. The way his eyes meet hers, uncertain, in the moment after he realizes he's startled her. The way she wants to drop her wine glass to shatter on the concrete, and just catch his face and _kiss_ him, and to hell with the conversation they were in the middle of, to hell with Virgil and Kayo. The way this is _romantic_ and thrilling and exciting, that he'd think absolutely nothing of just sweeping her off her feet.

It's a terrible shame that he ruins it by letting out a barking laugh, and pitching her into the pool.


End file.
